


Untitled Dean/Pie porn

by meerminne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Loves Pie, M/M, Masturbation, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerminne/pseuds/meerminne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean/Pie/Sam, written mid-second season and found buried in an external hard drive. I apologize for this in advance.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sam touches his own lips, suddenly too warm. He knows he shouldn't be watching and diverts his eyes from Dean, at war with his emotions. That's when he sees the silver pie dish sitting precariously on the edge of the sink. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Dean/Pie porn

It's another hotel room, nearly identical to the one they were in last night. Dean left the moment they arrived to go and scour the small town for food. Sam's stretching his neck out, rolling his shoulders as he walks around the room. He isn't really worried about Dean – they're in the middle of Montana. There's always that nagging feeling whatever he says to Dean before he walks out of the endless hotel doors, that they might be the last ones he'll ever get to say. He rarely says, “I love you,” before Dean leaves because, really, Dean already thinks he's turning into a chick.

Sam collapses on one of the stiff, strange smelling beds with his shoes still on. He feels comfort in the familiar scratchy pillowcases against his cheek, the awful matching floral patterns of the blankets and the curtains. He curls fingers around the stuff fabric of the pillow as he shifts to his side. He doesn't bother sliding down into the sheets, the lingering warmth of the summer day is still heavy in the air. The peeling plaster of ceiling and the swirls of tarnished water stains lull him into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes to early morning light weakly filtering through the blinds on the windows. He feels disoriented, like when he's fallen asleep in one state and wakes up in another. He looks to the other bed, seeing empty rumpled sheets and boots peeking out from the bottom of the blankets.

“Dean?” he calls out as he stands, running his hand through his hair and looking for more signs of his brother. The bathroom door is ajar, the bright florescent light spilling out from the small gap. Sam silently shuffles over, sleepily squinting his eyes when they're slow in adjusting to the light.

His breath catches in his throat.

Dean's hair is wet and sticking up on the side, his eyes closed. He's half sitting-half leaning on the edge of the bath tub, his clothes discarded beside a crumpled towel. His mouth is open and a bright, juicy red stains the thin lips, over the swollen rise of a fresh cut that runs over his bottom lip. His fingertips, as they trail over his bare chest, are stained the same color. One hand leaves his chest as Sam watches in fascinated horror, to rest on his bare thigh – so close to what Sam has only ever allowed himself to think of in the confines of his imagination. Dean's teeth capture his lower lip as he wraps his hand around himself, his other hand splaying out on the cheap tile of the shower wall for support.

Sam touches his own lips, suddenly too warm. He knows he shouldn't be watching and diverts his eyes from Dean, at war with his emotions. That's when he sees the silver pie dish sitting precariously on the edge of the sink. He nearly laughs. The pie crust is sinking into itself, gooey purple-red filling spilling over the crimped foil edges to leave smeared fingerprints along the cream surface of the counter.

Dean is breathing so loudly in the small room, his breath mingling with the remaining steam from his shower. Sam can't look away any more. The ludicrousness of the situation doesn't escape his notice, he merely chooses to ignore it in favor of the taut skin of Dean's forearm as his fingers move with practiced ease. So distracted by the play of skin over muscle and sinew, Sam doesn't notice Dean's eyes open.

All he can see is the beautiful arc of Dean's back, the hand straining for purchase against the blue tiles. Sam can feel his boxers dampening, quietly whimpering as he presses an unforgiving hand against his crotch. He leans against the door frame, which creaks nearly inaudibly. Alarmed, his eyes snap up to meet Dean's

Dean licks his lips, catching stray berries with his tongue. Sam wants to soothe the cut there with his own tongue as Dean groans, a blend of pleasure and pain. Their gazes lock as Dean turns to the sink, his hand reaching into the abandoned pie tin, scooping up filling. His fingers crook in an unmistakable message – come here – and Sam is frozen to the spot. He feels like his skin is burning, that if Dean looks at him any more intensely he will incinerate.

He nearly turns and runs when Dean gets to his feet, hard and seemingly unafraid. Sam is terrified. He is the prey in this twisted game and he is defenseless against the onslaught of feelings as Dean reaches out to paint his lips with the filling. Raspberry bursts across his taste buds as his tongue unconsciously licks away the substance. The very tip of his tongue touches Dean's index finger, which he's seen and touched thousands of times but never, never quite like this.

It's inevitable, after the first touch, the descent into the inferno. Sam's lips awkwardly slant over Dean's, his fingernails scratching across broad shoulders and naked skin, over ribs and hips. He moans, once, twice, as Dean presses him uncomfortably against the door frame and all at once his body is covered by Dean's hands and lips. He is burning, and Dean is the flame. Their hips twist and grind together, and Sam pants out nonsensical declarations of love against the damp skin of Dean's neck, biting down as he groans out his release.

“Fuck, fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans, grappling to keep hold of Sam's hips, his head cracking the wood of the frame as his hips falter in their rhythm. They collapse against the frame, Sam slips his fingers through the slickness on Dean's neck, and when he licks them he laughs. Raspberry pie.

"They didn't have apple?"


End file.
